


Red Hair

by Vigs



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Open Marriage, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, dom!doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4308645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vigs/pseuds/Vigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy corners the Doctor in the kitchen. He ends up taking control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place just after "The Big Bang." Very very slightly dubcon (The Doctor is pressured into actually giving a straight answer to a question for once in his life).

The Doctor was relaxing in the kitchen with a cup of tea. He wasn’t generally the type for relaxation, but every now and then it happened. Once every century or so, maybe.  
  
In this case, he felt that he’d really earned a break. He’d erased himself from existence to save all of space and time, been brought back by the strength of Amy’s...whatever she felt for him, and danced at her wedding without any incidents more significant than the occasional odd look from some of her relatives, and from some of the men who’d seen him at Rory’s stag. Mostly he danced with the kids, cousins and nieces and such. They were much more fun, and their hands wandered considerably less.  
  
And then he’d invited the newlyweds onboard, and kept himself occupied during their wedding night by soundproofing the control room and tinkering. They had every right to make all sorts of noises, of course, and Amy might not even mind if he knew what she sounded like during...that...but frankly, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his hand out of his trousers under such circumstances, and that seemed entirely inappropriate.  
  
It was Mr. and Mrs. Ponds’ second night onboard now. He was doing the right thing, he knew. His self-righteousness, as always, was a sturdy bulwark against his less noble side. It didn’t matter that he’d never wanted anyone like he’d wanted his fire-haired Amelia Pond.  
  
Oh, he’d felt desire before, of course, several times even for humans, but always as a facet of love, of caring, and that had hurt like hell, had torn his hearts to shreds, of course, but this was different. He liked Amy, enjoyed her company, respected her quick wit and her fierce determination, but he wasn’t in love with her.  
  
None of his daydreams about Amy involved making her immortal or himself human, to live together among the stars in perfect harmony. No, he alway imagined his fists full of that beautiful red hair. Sometimes he was grabbing that hair to hold her back as his mouth explored those breasts her outfits always hinted at, sometimes pulling her up against him as he rammed into her from behind, sometime holding her head steady as he slid into and out of that perfect mouth. Always, bright red hair sliding through his fingers as he selfishly stole his pleasure from her.  
  
But she was a human, and now she was married, and her husband was onboard. Rory was the one who was free to slide his fingers along her scalp, although he likely never made a fist and yanked the way the Doctor longed to.  
  
He’d asked the TARDIS to keep any room he was in soundproofed, for now, and he thought she was obliging. He was just going to sit here and relax and drink his tea, and not imagine whimpers of pain and pleasure mixed sneaking out of Amy’s throat. Nope. Definitely not imagining that, or straining to hear, just in case. Sipping tea, that was all he was doing.  
  
Of course, the downside of the soundproofing was that he’d had no hint that Amy was approaching until the door swung opened and she walked in, makeup off, hair tangled, her body hidden by a sheer, silky dressing gown over an even sheerer (sheerier? More sheer?) lace nightgown.  
  
His mug was halfway to his mouth when she entered, so he completed the motion, closing his eyes as the hot liquid slid down his throat without registering on his tastebuds. It seemed that all his neurons were occupied either with processing the image of Amy with her hair gloriously mussed and with a hint of dark areolae showing through her two insignificant layers, or with ensuring that he didn’t stand up immediately and grab her hair to pull her head back. She smelled of Rory and sex and herself.  
  
“Hullo there, Raggedy Man,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Was wondering where you’d gotten to. I checked the control room first, but it was empty.”  
  
“You were looking for me?” he asked, feigning nonchalance. That came easily to him, in this body. He was cool. “Something wrong?”  
  
“Not a thing,” she said with a grin, and sat down at the table beside him. Close enough beside him that he could feel the bed-warmed heat radiating off her.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be asleep, then? Or, well,” he grimaced and waved a hand vaguely, every inch the aloof and asexual alien, “Doing other bedroom things?”  
  
“Ah, well,” she said, looking at him with a sly grin. “I’ve been with Rory for years, you know. There’s not all that much that being married adds to the experience. And he’s asleep now, and I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
“Ah!” He jumped to his feet. “Let me make you some chamomile tea! The water’s still nearly hot, it’ll be ready in a jiffy, did you know that the jiffy is an official unit of time on the planet…”  
  
“Yes, the one with the clicky name I can’t pronounce,” Amy said with a tolerant smile. She rose to her feet as well, and moved towards him as he fiddled with tea-related objects. “You’ve only told me about a thousand times, Doctor. But I don’t want to go to sleep.”  
  
“Oh, but humans need sleep, Amy,” he said, trying to move away from her without making it obvious that that was what he was doing. But she was moving closer to him, and oh look, somehow sitting down and then standing up had jostled the ties to her dressing gown to the point that they’d slipped untied, and it had fallen open. She still had a nightgown on, but it clearly wasn’t built to conceal.  
  
A glance, hopefully quick enough that it fell in one of the microsaccades of her eye movements and she couldn’t see it, told him that she was clean-shaven at the apex of her thighs, and that her nipples were hard. Probably because her nightgown was lace, and therefore had to be providing more than enough friction to cause that. It didn’t mean anything, shouldn’t mean anything, couldn’t mean anything.  
  
“Rory’s a good man,” she said abruptly.  
  
He glanced at her, startled, then relaxed. This must be some human ritual he didn’t know about, some sort of post-wedding status report she’d have delivered to her family and friends at home, if he hadn’t whisked them away practically as soon as they’d said their vows.  
  
“Yes,” he agreed.  
  
“We’ve been together for a long time now, you know? It feels sort of funny. Only two days married, but we’ve been together for years and years.”  
  
“Mm,” he said noncommittally, because what were years to a Time Lord?  
  
“We made a deal, a long time ago.” She was walking closer to him, and he couldn’t back up, because he was against the cabinets. “He’s a very good man, and he loves me very much, and I love him. And he knows that.”  
  
“That’s good.” He was actually leaning backwards now, his hands resting against the countertops, his eyes wide and, through an act of admirable willpower, not straying below hers.  
  
“Yeah. So we made a deal. I love him, and he loves me, and it doesn’t matter what happens while we’re apart, because we’ll always come home to each other.” Warmth poured off her, like she was an oven or a volcano or a star. “Because he knows that I just need a little variety in my life, you know?”  
  
“Not getting bored on the TARDIS, are you, Pond?” he asked, managing to keep his voice steady although he could feel that his eyes were wide and his heartbeats were quickening to an almost-human speed.  
  
“Course not,” she said quickly. She looked away from him, finally, and he couldn’t help but let his eyes rake her body once more before settling them back on her face. “Just wanted to let you know how things were.”  
  
“Ah. Right. Well--”  
  
“Do you want me, Doctor?”  
  
He choked on his words and stared at her, sputtering nonsense. She met his gaze calmly and unwaveringly, although she was chewing on the side of her lower lip and that probably meant she was nervous, right?  
  
“Because, well,” she said, “If you were an ordinary human bloke, I’d be sure that you do, with the way you look at me sometimes. But you’re an alien. And you ran away from me, the other night. So I figured I’d just ask.”  
  
“Amy, I told you the other night, I’m--”  
  
“A nine-hundred year old Time Lord, yeah,” she said. “But I’m married, and I love my husband. Whatever you say, I’ll be sleeping with him tonight, and we’ll both be adventuring with you tomorrow. All I’m asking is, do you want to have sex?”  
  
He sputtered. “It’d be entirely inappropriate--”  
  
“But do you want to? You can tell me the truth about this one thing, Doctor,” she said. “I think twelve years of waiting has earned me that much, don’t you?”  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to believe what he was hearing, and felt a movement of air that could only mean that she was leaning towards him, a warmth that told him her body was only an inch from his.  
  
“Yes or no. Do you want to fuck me?” she asked, and hearing that word made him throb.  
  
“Yes,” he whispered.  
  
“Good,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. The sense of warmth and closeness receded a little and there was a sliding noise, which couldn’t possibly be the sound of a silk dressing gown slipping off smooth arms, and then a whisper that certainly wasn’t the sound of a lace nightgown being pulled up and over a head of red, red hair and tossed on the floor. He couldn’t confirm these not-hypothesis, because of course his eyes were still closed.  
  
“Been dreaming about this for years,” said Amy’s voice from several feet lower than usual, and his eyes were still shut tightly and his hands were still grasping the edge of the counter but his trousers were being unbuttoned by nimble fingers, unzipped with practiced ease, and now a small, hot hand was rubbing against him through his pants, and he realized that he couldn’t keep control of everything at once, he had to either let his blood flow where it wanted to or pass out or tackle her, and suddenly he was engorged, straining against his amusingly TARDIS-printed boxers towards the girl who clearly wasn’t waiting any longer.  
  
“Well, y’don’t feel too alien,” she said, clearly still smiling. Then he felt bare skin against his own, felt her higher body temperature and the smooth nimbleness of her fingers and gasped as she drew him out. “Don’t look too alien, either. Doesn’t leave too many senses, does it?”  
  
Glib comments about how even limited humans had far more than the five senses they generally claimed, although he wasn’t sure how, say, proprioception would apply under these circumstances, entered his head and then immediately vanished because may all the gods anyone had ever worshipped help him,  _her tongue was on him_ , licking slow circles around the tip of his cock, and then her hot, wet mouth was around him.  
  
A moan started at the pit of his stomach, reverberated in his diaphragm, and then tore its way out of his mouth. Amy hummed happily, and he could feel the vibrations, then her mouth was gone and he almost cried from the loss.  
  
“You don’t have to look at me, Doctor,” she said, no trace of a smile left. Her voice was thick with desire. “If you want to pretend I’m someone else or do some alien thing or whatever, I don’t mind. Just let me do this for you, yeah?”  
  
Then one of her hands slipped into his pants to cup him, and the other one was tight around his base, and her lips and her tongue and her teeth were moving on him, slowly, too slowly, achingly slowly,  
  
His eyes snapped open and he stared down at her, at the lewd sight of his own cock being drawn into her little human mouth, at the red hair that framed the scene. Her eyes were closed in concentration.  
  
And after so many nights when he’d pretended that his hand was hers, she thought he’d want to pretend that her mouth was someone else’s? No. That couldn’t stand.  
  
He sank his hands deep into her gorgeous hair and grabbed hold, gasping with the reality of his long-held fantasy. He stopped her from moving, holding her still with his cock halfway in her mouth, and she opened her eyes to look up at him with a look of confusion and defeat, as if she thought he was going to push her away. Ha!  
  
Slowly, he rocked his hips forward, and her eyes brightened, then closed. He could feel her surrendering control to him as though it was a tangible thing, an object passed from her to him. When he pushed a little harder, her throat opened up and he slid down, panting at the tightness. He pushed until her chin was pressed against his balls and her nose against his groin, and she let him, accepted him in, worked her throat muscles against him.  
  
He would have stayed there longer, letting her gulping massage him, but he remembered that humans had to breathe and pulled back until only a few inches of him were in her. She gasped around him, panting, but did not try to move or pull away. In fact, when her eyes met his, all he could see was a desire to please him. There was fear, but only of disappointing him.  
  
She was so beautiful, with her hair grasped tight in his hands and her eyes swimming with lust and surrender and her mouth distended to envelop his cock. He tightened his fists, pulling her hair enough that he knew it had to hurt, and it only intensified the look, making her moan against him.  
  
Her surrender was intoxicating. It made him want to see how far he could take her, to slap her across the face, to cum in those gorgeous green eyes and make her stumble back to Rory’s bed like that. For now, he settled for thrusting forward again, filling her up with him. She closed her eyes and gulped him down.  
  
He sped up then, pumping himself into her mouth, using her lovely face like a toy. Briefly, he considered pulling her up and pushing her onto the counter so that he could fuck her properly, but no. This first time, he wanted the only pleasure she felt to be the pleasure of submission, of pleasing him.  
  
Besides, Rory had probably already been there tonight, and the Doctor didn’t play second fiddle.  
  
Her throat was so hot and wet and tight, and she was squeezing her eyes closed and holding her body tense as if every fiber of her being was currently intent on nothing but his cock, his pleasure.  
  
“Is this what you wanted?” he hissed, knowing the answer but wanting her to say it. “You wanted me to want you? You wanted me to use you?”  
  
At the word ‘use,’ she choked and pulled back. He relaxed his grip on her, worried that he’d gone too far, but there was nothing to fear.  
  
“Yes, yes, use me, please Doctor,” she begged, and he tightened his hands in her hair, growling as he resumed his frantic hammering into her.  
  
“Look at me,” he demanded, and she did her best to meet his eyes while her throat was invaded. “I want to cum down your throat. Do you want that?”  
  
She moaned around him, giving tiny, frantic nods, clearly desperate to communicate her assent without compromising the quality of his blowjob. No, this wasn’t a blowjob, this was a  _facefuck_.  
  
“I’d make you beg,” he panted, “But this is a better use for your mouth. This is what your mouth is for, isn’t it? Your mouth is for my cock and your throat is for my--”  
  
He realized then that she was touching herself, frantically rubbing her naked (naked! He had been so wrapped up in the feel of her mouth that he’d barely noticed she was naked) cunt, and the visual, tangible evidence of how much she was enjoying being a receptacle for him sent him over the edge.  
  
He  _yanked_  at her hair, not caring if a few strands were parted from their roots, and pulled her face hard against him, greedy for more sensation, shoving the tip of his cock as far down her throat as it could possibly go while he shuddered and moaned out his orgasm. So good, that tight hot throat, that sweet wet mouth, that silky smooth hair--  
  
And then he was done, and he pulled back and let go, let her collapse on the floor to gasp in air like she’d been drowning.  
  
Torn between pleasure and self-consciousness, he tucked himself back in and zipped himself back up. She was naked on the floor and he stood there fully clothed, without even his jacket off or his tie undone. That almost seemed more obscene than what they had just finished doing.  
  
“Um, I, er,” he said intelligently, torn between impulses. He wanted to run out of the room, he wanted to help her to her feet, he wanted to take off his jacket and join her on the floor…  
  
“You a mind-reader or something?” she asked him, giving him a bright smile. Her eyes were still dilated with desire, he noted.  
  
“Um. Yes? But I’ve never read yours,” he added hastily, not sure why there was a naked woman on the kitchen floor discussing telepathy with him.  
  
“I’ve been imagining just about that exact scene since I first found out what blowjobs were,” she informed him.  
  
She started to get to her feet, and he hastily reached out to help her. She was naked and they were in the kitchen and it was weird. It should have been even weirder when she hugged him, but his arms automatically responded and it felt strangely natural.  
  
“Maybe not on the tile next time, yeah?” she murmured against his shoulder.  
  
“Amy, I’m sorry, I didn’t even think--”  
  
“Good.” She pulled back a little and smiled up at him. “I wanted to make it so you couldn’t think.”  
  
“Well.” He gulped. “You certainly did that.”  
  
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” she said, and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. “It’s not going to change a thing. This can be whatever you want it to be, long as I don’t leave Rory feeling neglected. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” he said. She smiled up at him for another moment, then broke the hug to pull her dressing gown back on and pick up her nightgown.  
  
“I want to do this again,” she told him.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“If we do, and if we do any more than this, is there anything I should know about contraception or disease prevention? I’m clean and all, but I’m not on the Pill right now.”  
  
“Ah, no,” he said. This was not a conversation he’d ever pictured himself having casually. “No, I’m, er, clean as well, and we’re genetically incompatible.”  
  
“Good!” she said brightly. “I’m off to bed, then. Night, Doctor!”  
  
“Good night, Pond,” he said, and impulsively kissed her on the cheek. She smiled at him cheerily, and headed down the hall to her marriage bed.  
  
The Doctor took a sip of his tea and grimaced. Cold. He put the kettle back on, and smiled to himself. Yes, he’d earned his relaxation, saving the world...and maybe he’d earned his fingers tangled in red hair, too.


End file.
